City Lights
by Burnout Black
Summary: Chang Wufei does not know Fear, but on the contrary, Fear knows everything about him. Sometimes the one thing you hate is the same thing that draws you in. An AU vampire fic about love, lust, and betrayal. 2x5, 3x4, 13x6, onesided 13x5 and 6x5.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I have finished six chapters of this story, but for the sake of my sanity, I'll be posting them one by one, probably one per week. This piece of work is going to be finished and I would appreciate all comments and reviews to keep me going. City Lights is probably going to be fifteen chapters long and may or may not end up as part of a trilogy.

Disclaimer: No, just no. I don't own them.

**City Lights**

_Prologue_

_I hear his voice sometimes in the darkness when I'm alone and the lights are all out. It happens in my dreams, and I never remember what they mean._

_I don't understand him; he is never here when I wake and never gone when I sleep. What is it? What is he? From what realm of secrets?_

_It drags me in…step by step, closer and closer to that edge. He pulls me in like a puppet and I can't resist. He sometimes_

_Leaves me a gift at my bedside, a rose that never withers and dies, an apple of the deepest red, a thorn to prick_

_Myself upon. I get the feeling that he knows everything about me, that he has memorized my face_

_And scent, my past and my future. I am a book to him at night, the moon his light with_

_Which to read me as he will when I cannot see him and the darkness swallows_

_Up my voice. Where are you, my shadow? What is your story?_

_You who sleeps by me without once showing me_

_Your face. Who are you?_

_And what have_

_You done to_

_Me?_


	2. The Stranger At Dusk

Author's Note: The actual first chapter and where the story begins. Please refer to the prologue for all information regarding disclaimers. Once again, review if you feel that this deserves it. I always appreciate comments.

**City Lights**  
_-The Stranger at Dusk-_

It is as it has always been.

I can feel his gaze on me, intense and heart-stopping. It has been like this for the past month; I will leave school alone after hours, a cheap backpack hanging off my shoulders with the edges frayed and the initials of a person who's donated this to charity—to me and he will be in the shadows, watching as I turn this street and that corner. I have dreamed of him for many days now, always restless at night, unable to shake the feeling that I'm missing something, that he's more than what he appears to be. I have never seen his face and cannot remember his voice as he lulls me to sleep, his weight a comforting balance on the edge of my one-room apartment bed.

I am nothing special and he is altogether too special for me.

I am the face of every other Asian that walks to school or goes to work or farms in a lonely village somewhere in China. There's something to be said about narcissism like mine. In the mirror, there's just me, an average built, thin and bronzed teen staring awkwardly back. There's the same coal black eyes, the smooth black hair, the slanted eyes. Really, I don't think I'm special at all.

What does he see in me that I don't?

It's a warm night, the rays of the sun lingering a bit before dipping below the earth. I still can't help but shiver; his eyes are on me. I can feel them, they are curious and probing and amused. My hands are clammy, I think suddenly, but why? I'm not scared, if anything, I'm curious. The storekeepers in the streets are packing up their wares, shutting down their stalls as they get ready to go home and begin anew tomorrow. I pass through them, ghost-like, just another face in the crowd. It's become a game for me, where I try to guess what he is, who he is, and wait for the day that I will finally get my answer. The silence in my head is enough so that I can think, my body is on auto-pilot as it turns at the right streets and keeps on walking.

It is silly, I know, to spend so much time thinking of him. I still haven't decided on whether I'm crazy for thinking that he's my guardian angel or for believing that someone would think me special enough to follow. Maybe I'm crazy in general. Not many people I know would be so calm at the thought of strangers sitting on their beds when they're asleep, never mind the whole I'm-following-you thing he does. Maybe it's because I don't know what real fear is. I don't mean it in an arrogant way; I'm not trying to say that I'm not scared of anything… that's stupid. I guess I've just never understood how to feel fear. I don't cringe at the sight of spiders, death is a faraway illusion to me, and though I should be scared of being followed when it's almost evening, I'm not. You could say that I only really fear hunger.

Hunger is terrible. It's like a separate entity that makes you feel empty and alone. I hate hunger with a passion; it brings back too many memories of fighting other kids to get a scrap of food. Hunger brings out the worst in everyone. I would know.

'_Aren't you quite the intelligent one.'_

I freeze and the temperature plummets rapidly, goose bumps rising quickly and covering my arm. I back away instinctively though I don't even know where the voice is coming from. It's him. I recognize this feeling, a combination of anticipation and wariness that comes whenever he's watching me, listening to me, following me. He's…he's…

Beautiful.

That's not me speaking, that's my eyes seeing. For a split-second there is only him. He's leaning against the side of the apartment building, the shadows of night swallowing his figure until all I can see is his profile and a single, glittering amethyst eye. _God, he's so pale._ Then he's gone and I find myself crumpled on the asphalt, legs buckled underneath me, and I forget how to breathe. The cold chill steals over me and I exhale shakily as my heart struggles to return to a normal cadence.

"Who…who are you?" I choke out as the blood comes flooding back into my veins. I know he's still there, watching me, assessing me.

'_Someone who shouldn't exist.'_

It's coming from my head, I realize, my eyes widening in horror as I scramble up and backwards. He's talking to me through _my head_. I'm crazy; I have got to be crazy. I should see a shrink, get a doctor to examine me, because I am hearing voices in my head. I hear him laugh distantly and it sounds like the chime of bells, haunting and beautiful at the same time. My heart lurches and for a second I think that this has to be what fear feels like. The feeling of being trapped with a person you don't know that knows everything about you. The breeze feels like ice as it passes by. It's freezing. My thoughts are jumbled up and I'm pretty sure that he's laughing at me as I scramble to think of a plan to make him leave, each idea more absurd than the next.

I try for the obvious solution. Run.

My hand is barely on the handle of my apartment door when his voice touches my mind again, a lilt to his words as if he's enjoying this.

'_I thought you didn't know what fear was.'_

"I don't!" I blurt out and it occurs to me that this is bordering the absurd.

'_Then what do you call this?'_

He's standing behind me. My limbs are strangely locked into place and I can't lift my head to look behind me and at him. A part of me thinks that this is really unfair. The rest of me thinks that now would be a good time to open the door and slam it in his face. I fight the urge to say that **this** is called being terrified, not afraid, and that**this** is all his fault. His breath ghosts over my neck, pliant lips cold like marble as they barely linger above my erratic pulse. My heart leaps into my throat and I can't think, can't breathe.

'_I am not your guardian angel.'_ He murmurs quietly, almost thoughtfully, and all this time he's saying it **in my head**.

"I figured," my voice manages to get the sarcasm through even though I'm trembling from head to foot.

He laughs, a warm sound now, no longer haunting and his lips leave the back of my neck. I dimly register the fact that it's not quite as cold before and my goose bumps are gone. The handle is pushed down underneath the sheer dead weight of my limp hand and the door swings open. I turn around (though I know he's probably long gone), a part of me wanting to know more about him, and there's nothing there. The skies twinkle with the beginnings of stars and everything is quiet and peaceful.

It's as if this were all just a fanciful dream.

But the traces of his slight kiss linger on my skin and I know that this is only the beginning.

If he is not my guardian angel, then he must surely be my downfall.

Is this fear?


	3. The Evanescent Vision

Author's Note: Third chapter will be posted next week as promised. Enjoy! (Once again, I'd appreciate it if one or two of you would drop me a comment. It gets depressing when your story has no reviews.)

**City Lights**

_-The Evanescent Vision-_

_Drown, he tells me. _

_Drown and I will be there to catch you as you fall._

_Drown in me, surrender to me, become me. _

_His voice is the only thing left._

_I…remember what it sounds like now. Sweet and sad; it's intoxicatingly pure. It promises me things; it speaks to me of the darkness and midnight beauty, of dark pools and crimson roses, of passion and fire, of ivory skin and otherworldly beings. I am going towards him against my will, against my better judgment. He beckons with hands that are hidden in shadows; he speaks with a voice that is silky and dark, all melting chocolate and soft persuasiveness. He feels like a guardian angel, safe and ethereal. _

"Foolish aren't you? I'm not a guardian angel, I'm much…much darker than that."

I can't respond to that, my head floating in the clouds above my sleeping body and his form as it sits on the windowsill, amethyst eyes sure to be gazing at the sky. I struggle against the oppressive unconsciousness and fight to break free. I want to see him; I have a right to see him after what he'd done to me today.

"You're awake."

_I hear a shift of clothing and for a second, I think that he is going to leave. 'Don't do that,' I want to say. 'Stay and talk to me.' _

"You still haven't figured it out yet, have you?"

He laughs and it sounds amused, as if to him, I am nothing more than a silly child who does not understand that one plus one equals two. Maybe I am, but I refuse to lie down idly while he reads me like a book at his own leisure. I am still a human and I still have my pride. I grit my teeth and try to open my eyes, but it's not working…and it doesn't work until his lips are on my neck again, cold and soft. Forbidding and inviting at the same time.

My eyes shoot open and already, I can feel my pulse racing. My hand goes up to touch the spot of my neck where he kissed me in my dream. It feels cold. Icy. The realization crashes into me quite suddenly. What I had was no dream, I had been hearing him even while asleep. I clutch the covers tightly and pull them up to my chest. He is standing at the foot of my bed. My brain stops, stutters, and then resumes its normal activity. In the moonlight, he looks absolutely unreal. I was right before; he is pale. His skin is alabaster white, whiter than doves; it's breathtakingly clear. His eyes are dark amethyst, a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips into a half jester's smile. I don't realize that I've loosened my grip on the sheets covering my body until he picks them up and covers me again. I search for an explanation in his eyes and he gives me a brittle smile and sits at the edge of my bed, back hunched over. His braid swings loosely around his frame, almost as if alive, and my hand reaches out involuntarily. He looks alone, as if there's no one out there that can make things right again. It's not right; I think bitterly to myself, a person like him doesn't deserve to look like that.

"You're wrong."

I start abruptly, shooting a wary glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. "You can…hear my thoughts?" The idea of my mind no longer being the same sanctuary as it was before is strangely discomforting. I don't realize that I'm staring at him until he meets my gaze head on, black clashing furiously with deep violet.

"I can and you're wrong."

I bristle sharply at his words. Who does he think himself as? God? What right does he have to say that I am wrong when there is no evidence, no proof? My face flushes red as I struggle to keep a clamp on my emotions; I don't want to give him a reason to leave. "Get out of my head. You don't know anything about me." I hiss, and he looks back at me, a foreign expression crossing his face. For a moment, I feel like he's someone I should spill my soul to. I tell myself to stop thinking that, to get a grip on myself.

"Quite the contrary, my dear human. I know everything about you. I know that you fear hunger, that your parents died in a fire, that at night you scream for your mother. And even more recently, I know that you dream of me. How flattering." He drawls his sentence out carefully, his eyes hooded and carefully guarded. Remember what I said about his voice being like melting chocolate? Scratch that. His voice is annoying me, he sounds so self-assured as if he holds all the secrets of the universe in his hands. I hate that. Arrogant prick.

He laughs again and it seems to be very natural on his face; it suits him. He looks happier, more carefree. My lips tug up at the corners involuntarily. It feels comfortable, as if he's supposed to be here in my room at night even though I don't even know his name. How odd.

"Shut up." I say mulishly, pulling my mouth back down into a frown. I refuse to give in so easily to whatever…magic he has. A small part of my mind nags at me and says that he's a stranger on my bed and that this means something bad. I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that part of my brain.

"You're not scared of me?" He asks suddenly, his hands laced behind his head as he leans back against the wall, eyes closed. For a moment, he looks dead.

I find my voice again, momentarily stunned by how utterly still he is. "Why should I be?" I counter, my eyes flicking to his serene face.

"Think about it," he smirks and there's amusement lacing his words. He lifts a slender finger to tap at his forehead and turns to look at me again. I notice that his eyes are lighter colored now, more…lilac than amethyst. "You don't know who I am but I know everything about you, or almost everything. I have been following you home for a month and you've only started noticing two weeks ago. I show up on your bed at night when you're half undressed and watch you sleep. That's more than enough reason to fear me." He says this laughingly, but I take a hard look at him and see the slight shadow that those words cast over his face.

"You're right." I hesitate and he looks tenser but doesn't interrupt. "I should be scared of you, but I'm not. I'm just annoyed because you refuse to tell me anything about yourself. You haven't done anything bad to me…" A silent and unspoken 'yet' hangs heavily in the air between us and I wonder if I should trust him. I wonder if he trusts me. "So I can't judge you for what you haven't done." I finish somewhat lamely and hug my legs to my chest.

"Purple." He says quietly, his eyes glowing like embers as they bore into me.

"What?" I'm lost, purple? Where'd he get that from?

"My favorite color is purple." He says with an abashed smile and I laugh nervously. The silence is suffocating though it lasts for only a few minutes. The butterflies are in my stomach again and I fight them down with a fierce blush. This is really quite unbecoming of me.

"So what's yours?" I realize that he's sprawled on the floor now, my bed being too small to support his lanky frame. He blinks impishly at me from his vantage point and reaches up to poke me on the forehead. The spot where he flicks me is icy cold. I pretend not to notice.

"White." I answer confidently, because he can't say I'm wrong. I hate it when people look down at me.

He looks mildly surprised and his eyes search mine, as if he thinks I'm joking or lying to him. Satisfied, he lies back down. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"It's…pure. Clean, you know?" I rest my chin on my knees and gaze out the window at the full moon. It's a beautiful night. "It's a calm color. I like it." I know I'm rambling but it's late and I don't really care. My voice is barely above a whisper when I say my next words, "It's the Chinese color of mourning."

His eyes are closed again and I'm mesmerized by how he looks like he isn't even breathing. Maybe he isn't. This time the silence covers us like a blanket, reflective and wistful. We're each occupied in our own thoughts and I wonder what he's thinking of—if he's remembering his own family.

"Yeah. White. It kinda suits you," He finally murmurs and flashes a crooked smile. I smile hesitantly back and lay back down on the blankets. "It's late. You should sleep." He says quietly from his position on the floor and it feels weird, to have finally seen him and talk to him. I realize that I want to know more about him, but I know he won't tell me. My eyes close of their own accord and I know that he's behind this.

"Are you staying?" I mumble out before I surrender to sleep, wanting to know and yet feeling oddly insecure just by asking. He chuckles warmly and answers in a slow, easy-going way.

"You know I always do."

I fall asleep with a smile on my face.


	4. Reflective Interlude

**City Lights**  
_-Reflective Interlude-_

He is gone when I wake up.

A part of me knows that nothing has changed, that he will still watch me and read me. I feel strangely empty inside, as if somehow I'd given him a part of me last night. Maybe I did, but if so, he'd given nothing back to me. If it were possible, I'd think that I knew even less of him than I did before. I hate this feeling, of not knowing anything and wanting to find out more. It's strangely addicting. I still can't quite forget yesterday night's dream. I have a feeling I'm in way over my head, but despite the warning signs, it's really very easy to fall into him. "Stop thinking so much," I murmur to myself and sit up on the edge of my bed.

The sunlight is blinding as it hits my face and I squint; it's ten in the morning on a Saturday and I don't want to get up. Outside, I can hear the bustles of morning traffic and screaming children as they spin around and around on a Merry-Go-Round. I try to squelch the wave of envy that rises up inside my heart, but it doesn't work. The day is bright, but my thoughts can't seem to focus. They haven't been focused ever since he first started following me a month ago. This is hopeless.

I stare determinedly at my reflection in the mirror as I brush my teeth, as if hoping that if I focus hard enough on the mechanics of brushing one's teeth, I will stop thinking about him. I'm sorry to say that it doesn't work. Brush. _Amethyst eyes._ Brush. _A crooked smile._ **Brush**. _A long braid that looks as if it were made of silk. _"God be damned!" I yell hoarsely, swallowing a mouthful of toothpaste by accident in the process, "Would you _please_ get out of my head!" I must look like a raving lunatic by this point; I've even resorted to cursing at my toothbrush at odd hours in the morning. My reflection stares back at me huffily, black eyes glittering with anger and face flushed bright, cherry red. I look like a bright red balloon, ridiculous and puffed up.

I half expect him to pop up and whisper in my head something ridiculous along the lines of, _'Well actually, you look __kinda__ cute like that,' _but he doesn't. He really isn't here right now and that thought saddens and frees me at the same time.

I close the curtains and curl up in the corner with a book in hand. It's a hand-me-down book, with the cover hanging on by the merest thread of paper and the insides stained with carelessness. But it's mine and I don't really care. I'd dug it out of a trashcan when I was younger and looking for food to feed myself, instead, all I got was this: _A Collection of Poems from the Tang Dynasty_. They were all translated into English with the Chinese characters printed in tiny font on the page opposite them. I loved them. I still do.

Lunch is a simple meal of instant noodles and some slices of leftover ham from yesterday's cafeteria meal. I don't like begging or asking for help or money or food, but I have to if I want to keep on living. All my money from winning essay contests and math competitions goes to the rent and utility bills. It's a little bit lonely by myself, but I'm fine with that. It beats living on the streets digging through trashcans for sure.

For the better part of the afternoon, I meditate. It's a relaxing experience, kind of like imagining a blank white paper in your head and focusing on it. The thoughts bleed out of your mind and for an instant, I believe in Nirvana. Most people don't believe me; they think it's a waste of time. I think that they don't fully appreciate life enough to slow down and just _breathe_. They rush to work, to school, to team meets and competitions. I wonder if they realize what they're missing out on, if one day they'll look back and regret all the times that they didn't slow down to see that cherry blossom or talk to that friend.

I skip dinner; I don't have enough food to last the weekend if I eat three meals a day. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that he hasn't showed up today at all, that it has nothing to do with thinking myself to be too boring for him. I've only just met him yesterday after all. He is nothing to me and I am nothing to him.

'_For a smart kid, you sure have a knack of thinking stupid things.'_

He sounds sarcastic and vaguely miffed; I fight down the urge to fling the covers off my body and find him. He is nothing to me, nothing. I repeat this many, many times to myself and hope that it's enough to keep myself from saying things that I would rather not be saying.

'_It's fine if you don't want to talk to me. I can just read your thoughts and answer that way too. It really makes no difference to me.'_

"Get. Out. Of. My. Head," I grit my teeth and shoot a scathing look at the window, a tiny part of me hopes that he'll see it and be appropriately chastised.

"If you really insist upon it. You really know how to crash a party, don't you? I mean, after spending your entire day reading poems, you'd think that your brain would be a little bit more imaginative." He's speaking aloud this time, thank God, but I still don't see him. I let my eyes attempt to adjust to the darkness and peer out the window, glancing at the city asleep beneath me. "Up, you idiot," He calls out from far away and I'm starting to think that this isn't such a good idea after all.

He's standing on the rooftop with a dazzling grin in place, purple eyes glittering with laughter. His arms are flung outwards as if hoping to fly and a sudden surge of panic overwhelms me for a moment. What if he falls? Would he die?

I wait with bated breath and he finally exhales slowly, an annoyed expression crossing his pristine features. "Stop worrying. I can't think when you're panicking. Geez," I notice that even though he sounds upset, he's at least stopped looking like the male version of the Titanic. "Hey, want to come up here?" He asks this casually, a devilish smirk curling his lips as he extends his hand towards me. "Or are you…scared?" I feel a rush of exhilaration and place my hand in his own ice cold one; he doesn't even look strained as he pulls me up to stand next to him.

I stand close to him, a bit wary of the edge and what a fall could mean for him…for me.

My unvoiced question somehow reaches him and he turns to put a hand on my shoulder. "I won't let you fall."

I trust him. Implicitly.

We stand there quietly for a long time, my shoulder numb from where his hand is resting and his eyes gazing far away from where we are now. The city lights burn brightly underneath us and I'm reminded of a multitude of fireflies. It looks…more alive, more beautiful at night. I wonder if this is what he's been waiting to show me. If this is what he sees when he stands on top of the roof, arms flung outwards and ready to fly.

At midnight he leads safely me back down to my room and bids me goodnight. He doesn't stay this time and I don't mind.

Tonight, he has given a part of him to me.

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait. I've just been really busy with other fandoms and other stuff that's been going on in my life. I've written this story up to around the sixth chapter, but I'll be posting them whenever I can get the chance. For those of you who are wondering, this is not going to be like every other vampire fanfiction out there. It'll come in at roughly fifteen chapters and may or may not have a sequel. If you feel that the plot is moving slowly, I'd like to assure you that this is true only for the beginning couple chapters since they have to take the time to hesitantly know one another. Things will really start to speed up around the fifth chapter. Drop a comment if it won't hinder you, thanks. 


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